


Failed Escape

by Agib



Series: Whumptober 2020 [4]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Death Threats, Fights, Gen, Head Injury, Protective Aaron Hotchner, Threats of Violence, Trapped, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26817031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agib/pseuds/Agib
Summary: “There won’t be anyone to open that door for at least… thirteen minutes.”The grin comes back, contrasting to Hotch’s heavy-set scowl. He lifts a hand protectively when Chester steps closer to Spencer, plucking a photo from the box of evidence. “Took me less than five to do this.”The image is of a woman, late twenties, short brown hair, shoulder length. She’s been massacred, torn apart by nails and teeth and bare fists. Everything Hardwick needs, he has, bodily force and brute strength. Enough willingness to get dirty, to tear someone to pieces.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid
Series: Whumptober 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1945771
Comments: 13
Kudos: 143
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Failed Escape

**Author's Note:**

> <3 Many thanks to Soph, my beta, love you <3
> 
> Based on S3EP14 of Criminal Minds.

Spencer fiddles with a snowglobe, watching the dust and sparkles move about with the water as he tilts it side to side.

Hotch is on the phone with someone, he thinks it might be JJ but he sounds tired out and fed up.

“Is everything okay?” He asks, putting the snowglobe down and sitting back up, looking to his boss expectantly.

“Yeah, fine,” he says dismissively. “Personal matter.”  
Spencer frowns, looking concerned.

“We can do this interview another time,” he tries again.

“He’s scheduled to be executed next week,” Hotch points out. They’ve driven all this way, of course he isn’t about to drive all the way back to Quantico just for a ‘personal matter,’ as he put it.

“I can take the lead if yo -”

“Reid.” He holds up one hand, frowning and pacing the room as they wait to be joined.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, dropping the subject. He deflated slightly, only perking up when his name is called and the assistant warden references his studies from police journals. He grins, eagerly informing the man of their plans.

“Chester Hardwick agreed to meet with us as part of our criminal personality research project prior to his execution,” he says. He’s learned to keep the excitement out of his voice. He might love research, but when serial killers are involved, Hotch has told him to keep things to a professional level in case he comes across as a ‘fan’ of some sort.

The warden certainly hasn’t been taught this.

“Serial killers are kind of a hobby of mine,” he says confidently. “Chester’s the only one I’ve ever met in person, though.” He grins, looking between them both. “I bet you've met quite a few.”

Spencer pounces on the opportunity to ramble with someone who holds the same interests, smiling widely. “Actually, we-”

“-Sir,” Hotch interjects. “We’d very much like to get started as soon as we can.” His tone is hard, but not any harsher than his typical day-to-day voice.

“Oh, of course - of course,” the man says hurriedly. He digs around in his desk drawers until he finds the key he was looking for. He explains the prison’s… lack of interrogation facilities and instead offered them a small room to use for the interview. “You’re not armed, are you?” He asks seriously.

“We unloaded our weapons before we arrived,” Aaron says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “This isn’t our first time in a prison,” he says matter-of-factly. 

Spencer might not typically be able to read social cues well, but he can tell that Hotch has been put in a terse mood from the phone call.

The man laughs in response, patting Hotch’s shoulder and accepting Spencer’s gracious but slightly uneasy smile.

“No, no, I suppose that’s true.” Hotch doesn’t lean away from the contact but Spencer can see his perpetual frown darken to a scowl. “You know, I have to say,” their assistant warden says. “When I heard Hardwick contacted you I was surprised.”

“Oh. Why’s that?” Spencer asks curiously.

“He doesn’t really talk… to anyone.”

“Well, that usually changes when someone’s about to die,” Hotch explains shortly.

When they make it to the room, the warden walks them through the safety procedures as they set up the boxes of files and become situated.

“The door will be locked from the outside, and this button here sounds audibly and triggers a light outside to signal the guards when you’re finished.” When he’s finished his information transfer, he leans across the table to where Spencer is unstacking files and spreading them across the table. “Are these the crime scene photos?”

“Uh, some of them, yeah.” Spencer mumbles, still occupied spreading them out properly.

The man picks one up and sighs, looking closely before dropping them back down again in horror.

“God, I knew what he did but I… you know, never saw… twenty-three victims, just like this.”

Spencer catches Hotch concealing a sigh of impatience, and he scrunches his face up in concern for his superior.

“Sometimes in these interviews they talk about crimes they were never charged with. There could be more.”

Hotch steps forward, retrieving the file the man had just gawked at.

“Paying attention to these items projects importance on them. When he comes in I’d like him to show us which parts he believes are important.” He speaks stiffly, but also worn out, and Spencer feels for the warden. He’s all too used to being muffled like an annoying flame during a bout of excitement.

“Sorry,” the man apologises.

“It’s alright,” Hotch says in response. He’s still blunt, just softened.

The door opens and Spencer looks up from his array of files to see Hotch glaring down the bright yellow smear in the doorway.

It’s their unsub, dressed in a thick, yellow jumpsuit. He meets Hotch’s glare with one of his own, and although both men are in a contained and regulated environment, Spencer couldn’t help but feel that the overwhelming amount of testosterone in the room was foreboding.

“Chains stay on, right?” The guard who escorted the serial killer asked.

“That’s probably a good ide -”

“No,” Hotch interrupts, and Spencer turns to face him, eyes sparkling wildly beneath the fluorescent lights. “They won’t be necessary,” he says surely.

“It won’t?” Spencer asks, much less certain. He was more concerned, to say the least, about the thought of being in a room with his boss in a bad mood, a serial killer and no defenses between the three of them.

“You sure?” The guard prompts. Spencer looks again to Hotch, who has yet to peel his eyes away from Chester.

“Yes. We’re just going to talk, right Chester?”

Spencer knows Hotch is pushing the boundaries now. He’s taunting their inmate, watching as his chains are removed.

There’s a smile on Hardwick’s face, predatory, excited. Something about it makes Spencer’s stomach churn.

\----

From the start, the man only seems to want to push boundaries. He tells them he will answer any question they have if the window is opened, which they allow, and then contends against Spencer when he attempts to confirm his birth date.

Hotch stays standing, which Spencer interprets as a deliberate decision to stay in control, while he sits himself, placid. Hardwick also chooses to stand.

He talks of his childhood when questioned, skimming slowly over the mundane details, which only serves to push Hotch over the edge.

“I don’t have time for this,” he snaps. Spencer holds back a flinch, ducking his head as his superior raises his voice.

Hotch deconstructs every lie he tells them, his voice a heavy concrete against Spencer’s light cobblestone trill.

“We’ve done extensive research,” he points out quietly. “Spoken to almost everyone you’ve ever known… including your mother,” he murmurs.

Hardwick spins in place, still smiling eerily.

“Good old Jean? I'll bet she was a real treat.”

“Good old Jean's down the street in the state hospital.” Hotch deadpans.

“At this point, lying to us isn't really possible or helpful,” Spencer points out calmly, rationally. 

The man must realise he’s hit a dead end trying to lie, so instead he turns back to face the window and tells them they’re wrong. He tells them how many fires he really set, which Hotch is clearly displeased about.

He growls quietly and makes a disgusted face at the change of course, allowing Spencer to take down all the notes they need.

What do you want to hear? That Papa kicked me and Jean’s ass every day?” Hardwick asks, surprisingly calm for what he just referred to.

Spencer looks to Hotch carefully. He has understood for years that Hotch’s behaviour around both child abusers and child abuse victims is different to those of other cases. He hates to draw links and profile his teammates, but he wants to be there for his boss when nobody else would understand.

Spencer’s the only one who is close enough to being in the same situation as Hotch was when they grew up. Of course, William was different, he was neglectful and violent with his words and negativity, but Hotch’s father was an abusive alcoholic, one that put him and his brother’s life at risk every time he had a beer.

He wants to reach out, to soothe, but considering the serial killer in their presence, he opts not to.

“Is that what you want to hear?” Hardwick asks.

“If that’s the truth,” he answers honestly.

“Nobody gives a damn about the truth,” Hardwick shoots back. Spencer glances to his right, noting Hotch’s dark expression and praying for this entire interview to hurry along.

They progress to a pointless conversation on the weather, but when he points out that summer is on it’s way, Hotch tells Hardwick it won’t be for him.

He’s cutting deep, and Spencer wonders what exactly the phone call was about to set him so on edge.

The man takes it in stride, still smiling as he goes. He agrees. _Not for me_ , he said.

“Let’s um, let’s talk ab - about the specifics of the case,” Spencer cuts in.

Hotch’s glare won’t let up and he’s beginning to grow severely concerned the two men might begin a real fight with each other if he doesn't keep things on track. “Why did you choose Sheila O’neal?” He hopes the change of topic will calm Hotch down, ideally enough so that both men take a seat instead of continuing to stand bodily on either side of him, like a game of cat and mouse.

“You gotta show me a picture,” Hardwick says. “I don’t know their names.”

Hotch curls his upper lip, looking disgusted at the commentary.

“Is this what this is all about, some chance to relive all of this?” He demands, squaring his chest outwards in a way that Spencer has learned to shrink away from.

“I have an excellent memory,” Hardwick answers. He’s goading, responding perfectly to Hotch if his goal is to start a war. “I thought you wanted to hear the truth, and the truth is, they meant nothing to me.”

Hotch places two hands on his hips, looking through the window distantly, tuning out their interviewee as he goes on to discuss the finer details of how little his victims were truly worth to him.

“They begged, they cried, they bargained. And it didn’t matter, because they didn’t matter,” he explains. Hotch looking increasingly more uneased at the discussion, even going so far as to exchange a check-in glance with Spencer.

He always was attuned to how uncomfortable the boy was with these kinds of killers. Reminded him too much of the pleasure high school bullies derived from torture and torment.

“Why did you ask us here.” He sounds fed up. Spencer doesn’t blame him.

“I wanted to smell the air,” Hardwick admits. He sounds crazed and unhinged in a horrid fashion.

“What?” Hotch demands, even more fed up with the cryptic answers and meaningless discussions.

Hardwick talks about death row, and being in twenty-four hour isolation. It sounds awful, but that is what killers like Ha 2rdwick deserve, Spencer reminds himself.

Hotch realises what’s being said - they were manipulated for mere fresh air - and he nods his head jerkily. “Pack it up,” he orders sharply. 

Spencer scrambles to scoop away the files, brushing hair aside from his face. He is all too aware of the eyes lingering on him as he stands.

“Should we at least -?”

“No - no,” Hotch snaps.

He pulls his messenger bag over his head, listening to Hotch’s final remarks as he pushes the buzzer, alerting the guards to let them out.

“Have a nice trip, Chester. You’re going where you belong.”

Spencer waits patiently, arms clasped around the box of files as Hotch waits impatiently by the door, buzzing every few seconds.

“It’s five seventeen,” Hardwick says. “Evening yard started at five, Guard staff’s outside with the population.” He looks insanely driven like this. Though the two of them were merely bugs caught beneath his shoes. “There won’t be anyone to open that door for at least… thirteen minutes.”

The grin comes back, contrasting to Hotch’s heavy-set scowl. He lifts a hand protectively when Chester steps closer to Spencer, plucking a photo from the box of evidence. “Took me less than five to do this.”

The image is of a woman, late twenties, short brown hair, shoulder length. She’s been massacred, torn apart by nails and teeth and bare fists. Everything Hardwick needs, he has, bodily force and brute strength. Enough willingness to get dirty, to tear someone to pieces.

\----

Hotch isn’t handling this the right way and Spencer can tell. His anger has gotten the best of him. He’s squaring his posture and bearing one side of his teeth. The two argue over how planned this really was, and Spencer scuffles backwards behind the table once more.

“I won’t need weapons,” Hotch says confidently in response to direct threat.

Spencer hopes Hotch was paying attention during the tour of the prison. The only exercise equipment was for bulking up, not cardio. Chester has spent years here. With his only spare time going towards working out… Hotch wouldn’t be able to keep his own in a fight.

“There’s no way they’ll execute me next week, not after I kill two FBI Agents,” Hardwick boasts. “You saved my life by coming here,” he says. “Shame I won’t be doing the same for you or your friend here, Agent.”

“Unluckily for you, I’m not a five foot tall, hundred pound girl.” Hotch argues. He’s fiddling with his tie, and soon enough Spencer realises he’s truly trapped in a room with his boss and a brutal serial killer planning to take him and Hotch down.

Regardless of how much Hotch has been enticing him the entire interview, Spencer looked too much like the prior victims to be passed over. Shoulder length, brown hair, slight frame, tall but not imposing in any way, far from physically dominating.

“All your life, you’ve gone after victims who can’t fight back,” Hotch continues, peeling off his tie and loosening the sleeves of his dress shirt. “And the rest of the time you spent looking over your shoulder, worried about the knock on the door, scared that somebody like me would be on the other side waiting to put you away.” He drops the tie onto the floor, stepping over it as Chester circles the two of them.

_Like a shark_ , Spencer thinks, _though sharks are hardly scarier predators than this man_.

“At your core, you’re a coward,” Hotch cuts. His finger slices through the air to jab at the man’s face, only inches away, accusing.

The other man growls, stepping forward in challenge.

“D - do you want to know why you killed those women?” Spencer manages. He steps out from behind the table, getting as close to Hotch as he can, who needs reassurance. He wants to reach a hand out to squeeze the man’s shoulder placatingly, but he fears at the moment the contact would set him over the edge.

“What?” Hardwick asks harshly.

“I can tell you why you’re like this,” he tries. Hotch is still standing furiously in the corner, imposing to the highest degree. “Why you feel th - the need to hurt people.”

Hardwick stares at him, face blank for several long moments. The room is quiet for long enough that Spencer thinks perhaps he’s expected to give an answer to follow up. 

Instead, Chester shuts him down. 

“I don’t need to understand my needs. I need to fulfill them.”

He immediately regrets the decision to come out from behind the metal desk welded into the floor, when Chester throws himself forward towards him. 

The man’s hands clasped against his shirt, the strap of his messenger bag tugging him downward as they flailed to the floor. 

Eventually the stress snaps his messenger bag and the case files he transported into the room sail across the ground. 

He’s only down on his front for a fraction of a second before Hotch is stepping in and dragging Chester away from him to the back corner of the room.

He sucks in air and watches Hotch take the upper hand. But Chester fights dirty, he fights for his life and livelihood. 

His elbow makes a sickening cracking noise when it comes into contact with Hotch’s nose, and Spencer flinches violently as blood begins to pour from the wound. Hotch swears - something rare for the unit chief who regarded himself with professionalism - and only barely manages to knock back a heavy hit to his gut while he’s down. 

Spencer scrambles to his feet, disconnecting the twisted and half torn strap of his bag to help out in any way he can. 

He might be weak but he knows how to use his weight to his advantage, thanks to Morgan’s private training sessions. 

_“You might not have had to pass the physicals, but you sure as hell need to know how to defend yourself in the field if I have anything to say ‘bout it.”_

He kicks the backside of Chester’s knee in and yelps when a fist tangles in his hair.

Fighting dirty seemed to be the man’s only resource at the moment. 

He feels half a fistful of hair snapping from the force of the direction he’s being swung in, and though he manages to leave four defined nail marks across the man’s cheeks and wrist, he still meets the concrete pillar with the base of his skull. 

The sound is ten times worse than the pain, at first. It’s a dull thud that sounds horribly like an immediate concussion. 

He collapses, stunned for a moment, as Hotch steps back in, keeping one fist shoved beneath his nose to stop the flow of blood. 

The pain kicks in when he watches Hardwick’s elbow twist up and outwards as it’s pinned behind his back at an awkward angle. It feels like he’s run into a glass wall head first, tiny slivers of aches and pains stab through his skull and neck. 

He groans, slumping back against the wall as Hotch shoves Chester into the concrete with a knee against the small of his back. The sides of his vision are growing blurry, and he fights to keep the two men in the centre of his slowly decreasing field of sight.

His eyes are shut before he recognises that perhaps passing out from a severe head wound wasn’t the greatest idea if he was planning on keeping his motor functions and awareness _intact_.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr is [@ag-ib](https://ag-ib.tumblr.com/)
> 
> my heart goes <3<3<3 when anyone sends asks


End file.
